Logan never answered the question. It was not meant to be answered. For de Spain asked it only to cover the spring he made at that instant into Sandusky’s middle. Catlike though it was, the feint did not take the big fellow unprepared. He had heard once, when or where he could not tell, but he had never forgotten the hint, that de Spain, a boxer, was as quick with his feet as with his hands. The outlaw whirled. Both men shot from the hip; the reports cracked together. One bullet grazing the fancy button smashed through the gaudy waistcoat: the other, as de Spain’s free hand struck at the muzzle of the big man’s gun, tore into de Spain’s foot. Sandusky, convulsed by the frightful shock, staggered against de Spain’s arm, the latter dancing tight against him. Logan, alive to the trick but caught behind his partner, fired over Sandusky’s right shoulder at de Spain’s head, flattened sidewise against the gasping outlaw’s breast. Hugging his shield, de Spain threw his second shot over Sandusky’s left shoulder into Logan’s face. Logan, sinking to the floor, never moved again. Supporting with extraordinary strength the unwieldy bulk of the dying butcher, de Spain managed to steady him as a buffer against Morgan’s fire until he could send a slug over Sandusky’s head at the instant the latter collapsed. Morgan fell against the bar.
Sandusky’s weight dragged de Spain down. For an instant the four men sprawled in a heap. Sassoon, who had not yet got an effective shot across at his agile enemy, dropping his revolver, dodged under the rail to close. De Spain, struggling to free himself from the dying man, saw, through a mist, the greenish eyes and the thirsty knife. He fired from the floor. The bullet shook without stopping his enemy, and de Spain, partly caught under Sandusky’s body, thought, as Sassoon came on, the game was up. With an effort born of desperation, he dragged himself from under the twitching giant, freed his revolver, rolled away, 136 and, with his sight swimming, swung the gun at Sassoon’s stomach. He meant to kill him. The bullet whirled the white-faced man to one side and he dropped, but pulled himself, full of fight, to his knees and, knife in hand, panted forward. De Spain rolling hastily from him, staggered to his feet and, running in as Sassoon tried to strike, beat him senseless with the butt of his gun.
His own eyes were streaming blood. His head was reeling and he was breathless, but he remembered those of the gang waiting outside. He still could see dimly the window at the end of the bar. Dashing his fingers through the red stream on his forehead, he ran for the window, smashed through the sash into the patio and found Sassoon’s horse trembling at the fusillade. Catching the lines and the pommel, he stuck his foot up again and again for the stirrup. It was useless; he could not make it. Then, summoning all of his fast-ebbing strength, he threw himself like a sack across the horse’s back, lashed the brute through the open gateway, climbed into the saddle, and spurred blindly away.
CHAPTER XI
AFTER THE STORM
It was well along toward midnight of the same day when two horsemen, after having ridden circumspectly around the outbuildings and corrals, dismounted from their horses at some little distance from the door of the Calabasas Inn. They shook out their legs as men do after a long turn in the saddle and faced each other in a whispered colloquy. An overcast sky, darkening the night, concealed the alkali crusting the riders and their horses; but the hard breathing of the latter in the darkness told of a pace forced for some hours.
“Find your feet before you go in, Pardaloe,” suggested the heavier of the two men guardedly to the taller one.
“Does this man know you?” muttered the man addressed as Pardaloe, stamping in the soft dust and shifting slightly a gun harness on his breast.